


A Slightly Impulsive Decision

by GoldenAceCard



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cats, Domestic Johnlock, First Date, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, Johnlock Fluff, Journal keeping, M/M, Not Too Bad They Get Together I Promis, Only Relatively Slow Burn Tho, Sherlock's Deducing Again, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-07 20:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenAceCard/pseuds/GoldenAceCard
Summary: It wasn't the box that he cared about, but miraculously, over the sounds of 5 o-clock London traffic, John swore he heard the smallest noise coming from the inside. He gazed around at other walkers passing, not noticing him nor the sound, and began to walk carefully down the path.The noise came again, small and fragile.





	1. Down the Alleyway

John walked into the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed for work. With a glance at the partially-shattered-but-still-functional wall clock, (Sherlock had thrown a flowerpot at it two days ago) he figured there was enough time to brew a to-go cup of coffee. He started up the pot, only to pause in confusion at the sound of a door creak open and footsteps following.

Sherlock padded up behind him, reaching around his side to flick on the kettle. John tilted his head at the man to his left, "I've lived with you for years now, Sherlock, and I don't think you've _ever_ woken up at 6 AM in your life -- or any time before 12, for that matter."

He only mumbled something incoherent, reaching into the tall cabinet for the loose-leaf tea and strainer, red t-shirt shifting and revealing his lower abdomen when he stretched up. His blue pajama pants were already low on his hips. John glanced at him and shrugged, evidently not about to receive a proper answer. Across the doctor's nose and cheeks was a nearly-undetectable but telling shade of rose.

John finished making his coffee, adding milk (jug now empty, Sherlock wasn't likely to buy more so he'd have to remember on the way home) and putting it in his lidded portable mug thing Mrs. Hudson had gotten him for Christmas last year. The outside was all white and silver stripes, but at the very bottom of the cup, when the liquid inside was drained, there was a small graphic of a rainbow with clouds at the ends. John had given a, 'for the last time, I'm not gay!' defense, sighed at Mrs. Hudson's knowing look, and accepted the gift gracefully. In the end, however, John found the mug very convenient for days like these.

Speaking of days like these, he was going to be late. He grabbed his drink, coat, and bag, heading for the door.

"By the way, I'm covering for a coworker today," he called to his flatmate, gripping the door handle. "Jackie's on maternity leave, so I'll be back late."

Sherlock mumbled again, slightly louder than before so John could actually _hear_ his lack of motivation to properly speak to him. 

John rolled his eyes, "and while I'm gone, do you think you could clean up a bit? There's still broken clay shards in the kitchen." He wasn't wrong, clay shards and soil on the floor near the oven, wood chips coating the coffee table in the sitting room, and what looked like some kind of lotion or gel splattered on the window. John had only a faint inkling of what cases Sherlock had been on lately and he couldn't imagine what these ones entailed -- if they even were cases. Either way, Mrs. Hudson would be fuming later.

This time, Sherlock's mumbles made what sounded like a, "yeah, sure" -- which, to John, was good enough. He shrugged and left 221B, taking sips from his warm drink in the chilly fall morning as he walked to St. Bart's.

~~~

John sighed in exhaustion, looking at the clock on his computer that _finally_ read 4:30. He was tired, hungry, and utterly burnt out. Finishing up his last report for the day, he began packing up. He tossed the empty mug from that morning into his bag and zipped the top. Bidding a farewell to Ivan, who was working the front desk today, he started his walk home. 

John was turning the corner onto Baker Street when he paused. To his left was an open alleyway filled with miscellaneous trash -- boxes, bags, food scraps from the neighboring restaurant. Not too far off from him, maybe a few meters, was a little cardboard box laying on its side -- nothing of particular interest, really.

No, it wasn't the box that he cared about, but miraculously, over the sounds of 5 o-clock London traffic, John swore he heard the smallest noise coming from the inside. He gazed around at other walkers passing, not noticing him nor the sound, and began to walk carefully down the path.

He reached the object in question and cautiously prodded the side with his shoe. A second's delay and then came the same noise, small and fragile. John went down on one knee, lifted the top flap that was hanging down over the open area, and gazed inside.

Huddled in the back corner of the unsteady shelter were two kittens, one an orange Bengal, the other a brown tabby. They blinked with large, innocent eyes, the tabby shaking with cold, or maybe it was fear. Either way John felt his heart tug in immediate sympathy.

Glancing around him once more, John made a slightly impulsive decision and took off his coat.

~~~

Sherlock finally finished getting most of the gel off the window, shrugging at the small traces of residue leaving faint streaks that he didn't particularly care about. He'd finished with the wood chips earlier, returned to the sawmill he'd originally taken them from yesterday. The wrecked flowerpot still remained in the kitchen but, rather than clean it up, Sherlock picked up a second pot off the desk. This one was painted blue and filled with sand rather than soil, all details perfectly mocked -- information gathered from the witness.

He moved nearer to John's armchair, took aim at the far wall near the fridge, and threw fast. It hit the target directly and exploded into sapphire dust and fragments. 

Sherlock's mouth quirked up at the corner, satisfied with the results as his mind started turning over the case again, working over the details rapidly and at once. He was pulling out his phone, still standing near the chair, when the front door to the flat opened. John walked through, black jacket in a bundle held in his right arm, left gripping the top handle on his bag. He opened his mouth to speak before switching his gaze to where Sherlock had been looking before he came in, seeing the remains of his most recent experiment.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, but kept it low, evidently wanting to stay quiet. Sherlock scanned him, the concealing fabric in his arms, assessing the situation.

"We don't have any cat food," he responded instead, smirking as John gawked, clearly annoyed.

"There's no way you- never mind." John threw his bag aside and shuffled his coat around to show Sherlock the two furry creatures, both drifting off then waking back up in a sleepy cycle. "I figured you'd be surprised, at the least?"

Sherlock looked down at the pair, "nothing is surprising when you _know_, John." He looked back down at his phone, typing quickly.

The doctor sighed. As brilliant as Sherlock was _most_ of the time, John swore he could wring his neck. "Whatever,” he said, “Mrs. Hudson is bringing up food and litter, she must've had a cat at some point." He took the cocoon and set it down on the sofa.

"Do you think that's such a good idea?" Sherlock said, eyeing John then the two kittens who had finally fallen asleep, cuddled up together between the jacket and a couch pillow.

"Well what are we going to do? Put them back outside? Winter's just around the corner, they're starving and cold and wouldn't last another month."

Sherlock looked at John then, "you're suggesting we keep them?" He posed the question as if _John_ were the mad one here.

He shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets, "maybe. We could find a shelter, but not tonight – every where’s closed."

Grunting an acknowledgement, Sherlock agreed to let them stay for now.

~~~

The flatmates let them sleep for a few hours, going about their evening naturally if not quieter than usual. Mrs. Hudson brought up a small bag of kitten food and tub of litter, along with a pan and some toys. The supplies rested against the wall in the sitting room now. It was around 8 pm that the kittens woke up, John coming over to check on them. He offered his hand out experimentally. The Bengal raised its tiny paw and pressed it against the back of his index finger, mewing in that high-pitch tone all kittens seem to have. John understood the signal and obliged, petting the cat cautiously. It leaned into his touch. When John took his hand away, his fingertips were streaked with dirt.

Gathering up the bunch that was his coat and two half-awake cats, he called to Sherlock and went into the bathroom. He rolled the sleeves of his green jumper up to his elbows and turned the faucet on, waiting until the temperature was right before letting water gather in the tub -- only 6 centimeters deep to not overwhelm the tiny animals. Sherlock walked in as John turned off the tap.

"Help me bathe the cats," John said by way of greeting. 

Sherlock hesitated, then evidently made up his mind and knelt down next to his friend. There wasn't much space along the side of the bath, given the toilet blocking a portion of the ledge, so they were directly in one another's space. Sherlock was hyper-aware every time John brushed by him -- he was still wearing a t-shirt and John's forearms were exposed with the long sleeves pushed back. 

John twisted and picked up the tabby, setting it gently in the warm water. Sherlock did the same for the Bengal and the pair started to wash out the dust and grime. Faint brown clouds of dirt spread around the water.

"God- stay _still_-" Sherlock struggled against the wiggly kitten. John giggled.

"He's a bit spunky?" 

Sherlock looked up, "'he'?"

John paused and glanced at the Bengal, now hopping in enthusiastic circles around Sherlock's outstretched hands. "I don't know..."

Sherlock reached for the cat, picking it up by the sides and holding him a bit above eye level. "Maybe, could just be neutered," he said. "Yours?"

John mimicked Sherlock’s action, "yeah, definitely male." John cleared his throat and Sherlock giggled quietly. He set the tabby back down, who was now evidently grey without the dirt, not brown like John had thought.

They finished soon after, gathering fluffy towels from the linen closet to wrap up the kits. John passed both burritos to Sherlock, sparking mild panic in the detective as he did his best to balance, and headed to the sitting room to set up the cat stuff they’d received. He folded a soft blanket neatly and placed it close to the wall nearest the desk as a makeshift bed (likely the kittens couldn’t jump on the couch yet, given their small stature).

Sherlock walked into the sitting room and gently plopped the now dry creatures on the blanket. John followed up by bringing their food and water bowls nearer, to which they ate and drank eagerly. John kneeled and pet the tabby cautiously behind its ear.

“You’re not actually planning on keeping them, are you?” Sherlock asked suddenly, mouth curving down.

John thought for a moment and shrugged, “why not? They wouldn’t upset anything here, you could talk to something besides the skull for a change.”

“John… they’re cats,” Sherlock said, looking at his companion as if that explained everything.

“So?” He rose from the floor, adjusting the sleeves of his jumper back over his wrists, “Sherlock, do you not _like_ cats?”

The man in question glanced away, “always been more of a dog person.”

John nodded in understanding; he recalled a particular case not long ago involving an interview with a grieving cat owner -- how Sherlock had shimmied away when the curious creature slinked by his feet. “Well,” he started, “how about we keep them around for a few days. If you’re still on edge, we can look into putting them in a shelter.”

Sherlock sighed and looked back down at the kittens, now playing together on their blanket, food and water dishes empty. “Fine,” he agreed, “but remember, John, how inefficient it would be to get attached, given the outcome might not be what you desire.”

The doctor rolled his eyes and put his hands in his pockets, “sure thing.”

Sherlock finally, _finally_, looked John in the eye, what his gaze had been avoiding their entire conversation. John saw the blue-green iris change hue as he was examined, sending a single spark, odd but familiar, racing down his spine. He cleared his throat and broke the contact, but still felt Sherlock scanning him. His eyes landed instead on something in the kitchen.

“Clean that up though,” John said, gesturing to the pair of broken flowerpots laying on the floor. “Don’t want one of them to get hurt.”

Sherlock glanced the clay shards, then looked back and half-smiled at John. “Sure thing,” he mimicked.

~~~

John woke up around 10 AM, on his day off of course, and remained in his pajamas as he walked sleepily down the steps. He put on the kettle and threw four slices of bread into the toaster, pulling the two half-full jam jars out of the fridge, apple for himself and strawberry for his flatmate. He tossed a decent pile of blueberries on both plates when the toaster _dinged!_ for attention. He finished preparing the food and heard Sherlock’s quick footsteps as the man immediately snatched one of the may journals stacked haphazardly at the table’s end and sat down.

John set the breakfast in front of Sherlock, busy scribbling God-knows-what in his notebook, and sat across with his own toast. He popped a blueberry in his mouth and searched around the flat with his eyes, his glance catching the Bengal tottering across the floor near Sherlock’s armchair.

“Where’s the tabby?” he asked, rising as he heard the kettle squeal and click.

“My room,” Sherlock answered, still writing manically and mumbling into the page as he didn’t bother to look up, voice rough around the edges with sleep. “Found a way up in my bed sometime in the middle of the night; woke up to him on my pillow.”

John poured boiling water into two cups and smirked, “and you let him sleep there?”

“Didn’t care, I was getting up anyway,” he turned the page and kept scribbling nonsense.

He delivered their drinks and smiled as Sherlock reached for his toast, smudging a dab of strawberry on the corner of his mouth as he continued to write with the other hand. “Growing on you already?” he suggested.

Now Sherlock did look up, “no, just… wasn’t bothered to move him.” He took another bite and set the bread down, writing down one last thought before closing the page with a dramatic sigh. “I did finish with the flowerpots yesterday, dreadful to pick up the thin shards -- it was the mechanic’s son, if you were wondering, nudging a succulent off his windowsill, seemingly a complete ‘accident’ until you talk to his girlfriend for more than ten seconds.” He rolled his eyes.

“Interesting…,” John commented thoughtfully, staring at the tablespace between them, “… no I definitely don’t understand.”

“Exactly, neither did Lestrade, which brings us here.” He pulled out his phone and tapped at the keyboard quickly, sending off the message.

At that moment, the tabby came tumbling out of Sherlock’s room, waddling up to John and putting a small paw on his bare foot. John gave him a quick pet before glancing at his breakfast.

“Can cats have blueberries?” he asked, reaching for one.

Sherlock finished with a second text, “perfectly safe I believe, though I don’t know if they find them appealing.”

John offered the little fruit to the kitten who carefully sniffed it. He considered for a moment before taking it gently from John, eating it swiftly. John chuckled lightly, “he likes it I think.” He sat upright in his chair again, “try the other one.”

“What for?” Sherlock challenged, taking another bite of toast and looking by his own feet to find the other cat jumping circles around them.

“Why not?” John replied, eyes bright as he watched his companion. Sherlock looked back at his steely cobalt eyes. John gave him and undiscernible look, compelling Sherlock to comply. With a sigh he swiped a blueberry from John’s plate having eaten all of his own.

The Bengal didn’t take the time to inspect the offered snack, taking it from Sherlock’s light hold and munching it at once. Sherlock couldn’t keep away the amused smile playing at the corner of his mouth (yes, the jam was still there), much to John’s notice though he didn’t mention.

“Copper,” the doctor blurted abruptly.

“What?” Sherlock straightened in his seat to look at John properly.

“Copper, short for Copernicus. It was the name of my cat growing up, I think it’d fit the tabby well.” He shrugged and reached down to grasp the kitten in question, placing him in his lap.

Sherlock sighed, “John, I warned you about attachment yesterday-”

“I know,” he cut him off, “yes, I know, Sherlock, but we can’t just call them Kitten One and Two. It’ll be temporary -- if we really don’t end up keeping them.”

The Bengal was currently hooking and releasing his claws in Sherlock’s pajama pants, vying for his attention with loud _mrows_ and little hops. He reached for the kitten to ‘just get him to quiet down’ and pet around his neck absently, John observing the interaction with an eyebrow quirked and a knowing look on his face.

There was a moment of silence, John feeding the kitten -- Copper now -- another blueberry. He parted his lips to speak, closed them again, before prompting, “how about that one?”

Sherlock looked up from where he’d been staring off into space, “hm?”

“A name, temporary or otherwise.” He caught Sherlock’s exasperated look and eyeroll, “C’mon, Sherlock.”

“Fine.” Sherlock looked at the creature nibbling on the table’s edge, thinking of a proper name to suit the… enthusiastic animal (temporarily, he told himself). He never had a cat growing up, Redbeard wasn’t too good a name for him, naming a cat after some_one_ was a bit strange admittedly. Maybe…

“Lueur, French.” Lueur turned, as if in response to his new title, and licked quickly at Sherlock’s pinky in approval.

“Better than Kitten Two,” John said, setting Copper on the floor and rising from his seat to clear up their empty plates.


	2. Note-Taking

Lueur stumbled over the carpet with unyielding determination, Copper following cautiously behind with careful steps. Sherlock took no notice of the two as he flipped another page in his book.

John was out, no cases were on, the flat was deadly quiet and utterly uninteresting, yet Sherlock was shockingly calm -- no nicotine patches or rabid search of the room for cigarettes. He sat sideways in the chair, legs over one arm rest, back pressed against the other, novel splayed in his lap. His spine would ache soon, but he didn’t care. It was… nice today. Pleasant, even.

Closer the kittens advanced, Lueur searching with wide eyes for a path up the tall furniture. They were both too small to navigate everything in the flat head-on, but typically it was cluttered enough that the pair could make their way up boxes and bookstacks gradually. Copper was the one to spy the staircase this time, and they set off.

Sherlock didn’t hear them approach, completely engrossed in his book and unaware just how silent two cats creeping across a desk chair could be.

~~~

John opened the door to 221B, balancing paper bags in both arms. He barely missed tripping on a football thrown carelessly on the floor, not seeing it due to compromised vision blocked by a loaf of bread sticking out the top. He barely glimpsed Sherlock, still in his chair just as he’d left, before stumbling into the kitchen to set down the load.

He bumped Sherlock’s notebook, which fell to the floor with a swift _plap_. Bending over to pick it up, he turned to the owner in the sitting area. The sight twisted his face first into shock, then realization, then a mix between smugness, adoration, and something more unidentifiable.

Sherlock was still reading, flipping another crisp page in _Catch-22_ (John’s copy – swiped from his bedside table after he’d left, though he _had_ been suggesting Sherlock read it sometime), that much was all pretty much as John had left him. Now, however, he could see a tiny pair of grey ears peeking out from under Sherlock’s right arm near the chair’s back. Copper peered at the words in Sherlock’s book, seemingly following along with the detective.

What really made the scene though was Lueur, balancing with effort atop Sherlock’s curly hair. The cat was spread-eagle, resting his head on Sherlock’s and gazing at the text below, much like Copper. John didn’t even think the trio was aware of his presence.

“Enthralling tale?” he said, more to prompt their attention. Three bright-eyed faces snapped towards him at the same time, Lueur slipping and grappling somewhat to retain his desperate grip.

“You got milk,” Sherlock replied instead, bookmarking his place and setting the novel aside on the table.

“And you got a cat on your head.” John crossed the space and set Sherlock’s journal on top of the book. He turned away and started shuffling about the kitchen, organizing everything respectively.

Sherlock shrugged and reached up to untangle the creature who was clinging to stray curls. Setting Lueur in his lap, he fluffed his own hair quickly back into place and turned to watch John flitting around through the other room. He examined his steps, briskly moving across tile to the fridge, pantry, counter, cabinets. He pushed back on his oatmeal-toned jumper sleeves impatiently, slightly too long and flopping over his hands constantly, to Sherlock’s notice of course. Folding the now empty paper bags, John stored those on a high shelf, stretching his shorter frame as far as he could to reach. He shoved his cuffs away again, but the left one fell back down persistently.

“Roll or fold them, they’ll stay back longer. Jumper’s too tall for you anyway,” Sherlock commented, still observing.

John looked up, then down at his sleeves. “Only one they had,” he said, following his flatmate’s advice and folding back the cuffs about three inches.

“Suits you regardless.”

John paused mid-adjustment to his right cuff. He hesitated a moment, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic yet shockingly casual compliment. “Thanks,” he replied lamely.

Sherlock turned his attention back to Lueur, insistent on testing his developing claws on Sherlock’s shirt cuff (he’d finally taken the effort to get dressed that afternoon in a button-down and black trousers). The kitten hooked a white thread and bit at it as though it were a threat. Sherlock pulled him away cautiously, reaching around to grab his notebook. He flipped to a random page, already filled with scribbles, and wrote a quick note near the bottom. Examining the rest of the paper briefly, he shut the cover and looked toward John.

“Hungry yet?” he asked, the doctor turning.

John checked the wall clock -- 6:37. He’d spaced lunch earlier when the pair had been receiving what Sherlock deemed ‘uninteresting and ridiculous’ clients through most of their afternoon. Nothing to pursue case-wise. “Yeah,” he said, “I can phone for takeout?”

“No need, grab your coat,” Sherlock said, rising. He grabbed his own coat and scarf, stuffing his phone in the pocket.

John didn’t respond, but complied. He gave Lueur and Copper a pat and quickly scanned the flat from where he was, double-checking there weren’t any sharp objects or chemicals lying about within reach (though it wasn’t the first time they’d left the two home alone). He’d ask Ms. Hudson to come up and check on them anyway, just in case.

~~~

One cab-ride later, Sherlock and John arrived at some Italian restaurant of Sherlock’s choosing. John later would forget the name.

They were seated at a table rather quickly, though it wasn’t particularly busy on a Tuesday evening. They sat at booth near a window, John gazing out at the sun gradually lowering in the sky. Soft pinks and oranges backlighted Sherlock’s messy hair as he gazed down at the menu. Quiet piano music drifted throughout the building.

“Any new cases come on while I was out?” John prompted, mostly to put a dent in the silence.

“No,” Sherlock said, letting out a dramatic sigh, “nothing worth my time.”

“I saw you had _Catch-22_ when I got home. My copy?”

“Yup,” Sherlock stretched out the syllable, popping the p. “Who’s James?” He looked up then, across the table at John.

“Caught the message on the inside cover then?” John chuckled. “James Sholto, ex-Commanding Officer. Probably mentioned him once or twice to you.”

Sherlock let out an acknowledging ‘hm’ before stating abruptly, “first name.”

“Pardon?” John said, lowering his own menu.

“Just the first name, no title.”

John cleared his throat, a timid smile softening his features, “it was a gift before I… left. Despite ranking he was more of a friend at the time, though I hardly see him nowadays -- lives out in the middle of nowhere receiving more death threats than you daily.”

Sherlock gave another noise and they lapsed into a brief silence until a waiter came to take their orders. He collected their menus and retreated to the kitchen, Sherlock idly fiddling with a napkin and John looking around the restaurant as neither of them knew quite what to say.

Nearby, a couple rose from their own place to leave, a waitress swooping by snappily to clean up and take the bill. She stacked up several plates and grasped the little jar holding a trio of scarlet roses from the table. Before rushing back to the kitchen with the dishes, she deposited the flowers on John and Sherlock’s table with a quick wink.

She’d left too quickly for John to oppose, not that he really would’ve -- he didn’t exactly care all that much anymore, it happened so often. All he did was scoff once in amusement, small smile playing at his lips, and continue looking out the window behind Sherlock. London was oddly quiet this evening. Soon after, their waiter returned with the food.

“Doing anything tomorrow?” John asked, taking a forkful of pasta.

“Looking for cases, antagonizing Mycroft when he comes on a ‘surprise’ check-up, why?” Sherlock responded, eyes calculating. He sipped at his raspberry soda.

John opened his mouth to respond, then caught Sherlock’s eye. One look and it was evident he decided against whatever he meant to say and settled for, “just… conversation.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked but he said nothing. Conversation lulled for a moment.

“How’s the book?” John wondered.

“Good, only through the first few chapters,” Sherlock said. “Though I imagine it’ll all be deleted by the epilogue, as fiction usually goes, but, uh… good so far.”

From there they ate and enjoyed each other’s company with few more words – casual remarks and banter, but it wasn’t in any way awkward or uncomfortable. The simple act of being in one another’s presences was enjoyable, regardless of complex conversation or complete silence.

John watched traffic shift outside the window and Sherlock scanned John, taking mental notes on the content-ness displayed by his relaxed jaw and shoulders, the calm in his blue eyes. John at that moment caught Sherlock’s gaze and held it, warm smile spreading across his features. Sherlock couldn’t help but respond with a reciprocal smile back.

They finished eating, taking care of the tab and heading outside together to hail a cab. The sun was kissing the horizon now, crisp air gaining a colder feel as light waned. White puffs came out their lungs as they breathed. John felt grateful for Sherlock’s advice to bring a coat, yet he still rubbed his hands together in the chill.

Sherlock, stepping back from the sidewalk ledge as he struggled to find a taxi, glanced at John shivering. He untied the blue scarf around his neck and thrust it towards the doctor. John looked at it before taking it without comment, tying it around his own throat. The soft fabric kept out a surprising amount of cold air, already warmed from Sherlock’s residual body heat.

It smelled like Sherlock too -- vanilla and moonlight mostly, and… chamomile.

After several minutes of trying, they were able to spot a black cab meandering the street and claim it. The pair got in the warm vehicle and gave the cabbie their address, who set off. Again, they didn’t speak much, but about halfway home Sherlock started to hum something familiar. The mystery melody wasn’t in tune to the jazzy saxophone music playing passively from the car radio, and John struggled to place it.

They reached 221B and Sherlock produced his wallet, removing a few notes and passing them up front. Exiting, they made their way inside quickly, grateful for Mrs. Hudson turning up the heat while they’d been out. Sherlock removed his coat, John mimicking the action and tossing his over the banister. He reached towards the scarf before another pair of hands stopped his own.

“I’ll get it,” Sherlock said, long pale fingers working at the simple loop and brushing against John’s throat lightly. He set the fabric over his hanging coat but didn’t move away, John’s back almost against the wall near the stairs with the detective standing few centimeters in front. He swallowed thickly.

“Can I try something, John?” Sherlock asked in a soft voice, an octave lower than usual. “Call it an experiment, if you’d prefer.”

It was dim in the corridor, but John could see Sherlock’s eyes darken. He felt a flush creep along his nose and cheeks and nodded just enough for Sherlock to notice. John’s eyes fluttered shut as Sherlock started to lean closer, breath ghosting over John’s slightly parted lips.

It was a light, and _way too short_, press of lips really, John returning the same pressure in those few seconds of connection. Sherlock pulled away, before John had time enough to react, and was about do his Sherlockian thing and examine John’s condition to gather data based on what he’d tried. He never got that far, however, because John reached to pull Sherlock by the waist towards him into a proper kiss.

Sherlock’s hands flailed comically at first, not knowing quite where to put them, before he relaxed and settled on John’s hips. John took the opportunity to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s curly hair, other hand wandering somewhere along his spine and the small of his back.

Sherlock really did taste like vanilla (though that may have been just John’s opinion), now mixed with a zing of raspberry. John tasted like cinnamon and spice, which was completely insane, likely not true, and Sherlock was sure he was imagining it, but damnit he didn’t want to _stop_ \-- he was here and kissing John and it was _good_.

The two pulled apart, Sherlock looking slightly more disheveled with messier-than-usual hair and an even blush standing out starkly against his pale skin. John smirked.

“How’d you know?” he asked suddenly. “And I know you’ll say some ‘it’s obvious, John’ type answer but… don’t do that.”

“I can show you,” Sherlock said, stepping away and turning to take the stairs. John followed him up and through the door of the flat.

They passed the kittens sleeping on their blanket bed near the desk, curled into one another. Sherlock picked up the journal he’d been writing in actively for the past month and flipped to some place in the middle.

“My brain may be my hard drive but occasionally I have a matter that requires easily accessible, complex information available at hand, without going into my mind palace every other minute. Here-” he passed the open book to John “-is my back-up drive.”

He scanned the scribbles with interest. Sherlock had been thorough, a month’s worth of research -- a month’s worth of research on _John_ \-- compiled in several pages of notes and data. Some particular comments stood out while John skimmed;

_20 September; Heartrate, pupil dilation, adrenaline flush, result from Copperstone Robbery chase down York, all symptoms increased suddenly with proximity limited in Baker Street foyer. Introductory cause to my keeping of this next research endeavor – Inquiry Question: Does John H. Watson hold some form of physical or emotional attachment to me and do I reciprocate? Period of data collection: undetermined._

The “Inquiry Question” was written in bold red ink, the rest in black.

_29 September; Increase in concern for my wellbeing -> personal physical health compromised with minor fever, John has given me several cups of tea already (it’s only 1 pm) and provided piles of folded blankets for my use. Own Reflection: definitely appreciated, personal emotions evolving?_

_2 October; Reflecting and reciprocating John’s care for me several days ago; he’s now taken my illness being in such close quarters. He reacted positively to my attention, like I had before with his. Own Reflection: personal emotions evolving confirmation, attachment developing stronger._

John smiled at the “Own Reflection” notes in blue ink, of which there were many -- usually tacked at the end of a day’s log. He flipped the page again.

_12 October; Kittens brought home today, John didn’t respond well to my reluctance. _

_15 October; Reaction at sweater compliment… positive? Difficulty discerning, revisit for more data. Affirmation at prospect of dinner, more to elaborate this evening._

John glazed over the rest for the most part, ending on the most recent one -- the 15th of October. A thought suddenly entered unwarranted into his mind, “hang on, was tonight a date?”

Sherlock seemed surprised at the suggestion, illustrated in his expression clearly. “It wasn’t intended to be, though I guess given the conclusion in the foyer just now, it appears that way.”

John scoffed and grinned, “you prick, you could have just told me when you’d found out.”

“Needed more time,” Sherlock planted a chaste kiss on his lips. “Only confirmed both your matter and my reciprocation around the time you brought them home.” He nodded towards Copper and Lueur sleeping on their mat.

John shook his head and said playfully, “idiot.”

Sherlock smiled back and leaned forward again to connect their lips, this time letting the kiss stretch and blossom slowly. John rolled onto the balls of his feet for height. The couple stayed like that, feeling the London evening lull into complete darkness when the sun disappeared fully behind buildings and earth. Dusk settled to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter to come this weekend, a nice lil epilogue-type thing, thanks for the reading!


	3. Cat Takes The Case

John never asked Sherlock again if they were keeping the cats, and Sherlock never questioned if they were to be given up to a shelter, because of course they weren’t. Three weeks lapsed since John had picked them up out of their cardboard shelter in the alley and the pair visited the vet several times. No chip revealed a former owner when scanned, so the couple had them chipped, vaccinated, and Copper neutered (they both turned out to be male, Lueur likely ‘snipped’ already when he’d been at a humane society somewhere).

Sherlock ran his fingers under Copper’s goldish-bronze collar, the kit purring appreciatively in his lap. He sat at the kitchen table with his microscope, alternating between focusing the lens and petting the little creature. Lueur, however, wasn’t as docile.

“No,” Sherlock deadpanned and snatched the graduated cylinder of clear solution up before it tipped, barely glancing up from the slide before him. From the kettle, John giggled.

“He’s helping you solve the case, since you’re clearly not getting anywhere,” he said, pouring boiling water into two cups and letting the liquid to steep.

Sherlock, still holding the container, opened his mouth to reply with a quick remark before his eyes widened. “No, you’re right!” he exclaimed.

He set Copper gently on the floor and stood, hands like lightning as he composed another dish with the dirt sample and solution Lueur had so helpfully pointed out to him. The kitten in question only looked up with large eyes at the madman whizzing about the kitchen. Sherlock placed the compound under the scope and adjusted the fine knob, peering through the window and not bothering to sit. As he finished, he straightened and clapped his hands with a loud, “yes!”

John grinned and delivered his tea, kissing him quickly on the cheek, “the nurse?”

“The bicyclist, we have to go.” Sherlock grabbed Lueur off the table and moved a few dangerous chemicals out of reach before rushing out the door, tea immediately forgotten, John trailing behind. “He’ll know we’ve got him by now, be ready for the chase.”

“A chase with a bicycle?” John commented when they’d reached the bottom of the stairs. “Seems a bit outmatched, don’t you think?”

“Not if we catch him before he reaches his transport at the station, we’re not far.” They gathered their coats quickly and dashed out into the cold, snappy November air.

Together, they ran.

~~~

Hours later, after the chase, the catch, and the call for Lestrade and his men, John and Sherlock stumbled through the front door catching their breaths.

“That was… good,” John said between pants.

“Damn right,” Sherlock responded, trying to laugh lightly and breathe at the same time. “First proper chase in weeks-” gasp “-I’d call it a success.”

The two broke down in oxygen-deprived laughter, giving their giggles an odd pitch that only made them laugh more. John recovered first, “he hit you with a real blow there, didn’t he?”

Sherlock reached up and touched his jaw, a purple bruise forming already. “Not too bad, might be sore.”

“Not what I meant,” John said and moved to stand in front of Sherlock, who was still leaning against the wall. He traced his left cheekbone lightly with a thumb, the tip coming off scarlet. “I’ll get it.”

With that, he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and lead him up the stairs, through the front entrance, and left him to lean against the kitchen counter. Copper and Lueur were sleeping in their cat bed (a gift from Lestrade after he and Molly visited the kittens, better than the blanket they’d had before).

John rummaged through the cabinet near the floor, retrieving the first aid kit and opening the metal lid. He wet a cloth in the sink with warm water and pressed it to Sherlock’s wound, still leaking blood steadily. It was admittedly a nasty gash, though not quite severe enough to warrant stitches. Sherlock took hold of the cloth while John kept searching through the kit.

“Where’s all the butterfly bandages?” he asked, pulling out an alcohol pad.

“You used the last one a week ago, remember? The robber that got you from behind with a tree branch -- of all things.”

“Oh, yeah,” John said, rubbing his temple. “He knocked me out after that, you were panicking beyond belief when I woke.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I was worried.” He lifted the cloth off to check the crimson spread across it, pressing it back again to stem the now weaker flow of blood.

John smiled and kissed Sherlock briefly. “More in the bathroom, I think. Be right back.”

John walked off, leaving Sherlock to stare around the kitchen. He felt a nudge at his elbow rested against the counter and looked down to see Copper, staring up from beside the sink. How he ended up there, Sherlock had no idea, but the detective only shrugged and pet the little kitten’s back and shoulders. He mewed appreciatively and licked his palm.

Returning with a fresh box of bandages rather quickly, John finished patching up the injury, not bothering to question the cat on the counter. When he was done, he put up the first aid kit and picked up Copper to set him on the ground. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he stated. “Mind giving them their dinner?” he gestured to Lueur and Copper play-wrestling on the tile by their feet.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied.

~~~

Kittens fed, John sat on the bed in his pajamas with damp hair. He was leaning back against the headboard, copy of _The Hobbit_ (admittedly a ‘childish’ novel but it had been one of his favorite books as a teenager) in one hand, running his fingers of the other through Lueur’s soft fur. Copper was snuggled against his hip asleep.

Sherlock walked in from the bathroom already in sweatpants, shaking out wet curls. He crawled under the covers next to John, who reached over to switch the lamp off and lay down. Copper repositioned himself on the pillow, adjusting to the posture change.

Moonlight spilled from the window, open a tab to let a cool fall breeze fill the room. Sherlock shivered slightly and scooted closer to wrap his arms around John for warmth. John reciprocated with a kiss to the forehead, where inky strands of hair had fallen. He brushed light fingertips against the cherry wound on Sherlock’s cheek.

“I love you.”

John knew Sherlock was probably beyond consciousness now (he could fall asleep in seconds after a case sometimes, it was unreal), but he couldn’t help murmuring the phrase anyway, even if it was only to the peaceful London night drifting lazily beyond the window.

Except Sherlock heard him, loud and clear and sleepily was able to mumble out, “I love you too.”

It wasn’t the last time they exchanged those words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, just a small conclusion to finish with extra fluff (cause that's my specialty). Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Two more parts coming up within the next day or so -ish, thanks for reading!


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